


The Old Man

by Pikkulef



Series: Original characters and their original stories, not all well fitted together [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23071030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef
Summary: This is a short story that takes place before my main original work. It was written in French first, to share with a writing team I am now part of. However I have some friends who do not speak French with whom I wanted to share this work, so I have translated it.It's only 3 chapters long, and everything is already written, I just need to translate the remaining chapters.I hope you like this kind of presentation of my main character. Thanks for reading!
Series: Original characters and their original stories, not all well fitted together [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/752916
Comments: 8
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Le Vieux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25859635) by [Pikkulef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef)



> This is a short story that takes place before my main original work. It was written in French first, to share with a writing team I am now part of. However I have some friends who do not speak French with whom I wanted to share this work, so I have translated it.  
> It's only 3 chapters long, and everything is already written, I just need to translate the remaining chapters. 
> 
> I hope you like this kind of presentation of my main character. Thanks for reading!

Finding the bench had already been far too complicated. No need to add that _fucking_ backpack zip. 

Desden shook the bag on his knees, grumbling, pulling the zip one way and the other. The zip suddenly let go of whatever it was stuck on, and all that was in the bag fell, scattering on the ground : water bottle, sandwich ; but also the rest of his stuff : folding cane, wallet… 

“No-no-no-no-no-no FUCKING SHIT ! FUCK !!” 

Desden tried to calm down - no need to shout, he probably had made enough of a scene of himself already - and he started to pick up what he could. Sandwih on his knees, bottle near his left foot. The rest… 

“Here, son, you dropped all this.” 

A big hand landed heavily on Desden’s shoulder, while another poked him in the ribs with what he realised was his cane. The voice was hoarse, laden, like gravel under a car. And the breath coming with it was heavy, too. 

“Err, thanks,” Desden mumbled, taking the cane then the wallet that were being handed to him, trying to ignore the smell that had assaulted his personal space ; a reek of alcohol, cold ashtray and sweat. Probably other things he really didn’t want to think about. 

Embarrassed, he put everything away in the bag randomly, knowing he would regret it later, then reconsidered and grabbed his wallet again. To thank that man for his help seemed like a good idea. 

There was also always this pang of fear, thinking that this guy, whoever he may be, could easily get anything from him if he decided to. So better to thank him before he decided to take what he thought he was owed. 

“You think I had the time to rob you?” 

There was a slight accent in his “r”. 

“No ! No, I just want to thank -” 

“I ain’t going to take money from a blind man, son, put that wallet away now.” 

The man - Desden decided to call him “old man” since he kept calling him “son” - was firmly pushing Desden’s hands and wallet away. 

“Thank me by chatting some, since you’re sitting in my home.” 

“I’m sorry,” Desden awkwardly started to get up, almost dropping his backpack again. “I can-” 

“No, son! Unless you don’t wanna talk. I lend you my bench, then. I don’t want to bother you.” 

“You… you aren’t bothering me” 

On the contrary, in fact. Next to this weird old man, Desden had almost forgotten what had caused him to panic for several days : his job interview. That was coming in exactly two hours. 

“We can chat.” 

“Good! You know, I’ve been seeing you for some time. Sorry, you wouldn’t know, but a blind man that’s over 6.5, you notice it… Also, you got a very cute dog…” 

“6.49.”

“What?” 

“I never got to 6.5.” Of course he was noticeable. He hated that, but that had always been his life, since he had spectacularly sprouted in high school. And then, later, the white cane… then the dog… 

But there was nothing fishy in the old man’s voice. Only an observation. Desden shrugged, smiling. 

“Hah, I like you, son.” 

Desden had his sandwich on his knees, but even if the old man was occupying his mind, he wasn’t hungry at all. The lump he had in his throat had been stopping him from consuming anything else than water since the night before. He’d been pretty presumptuous to make this sandwich in the first place. 

He held the sandwich in the general direction of the old man. 

“Don’t take it badly, but… Take it. I won’t be able to eat it.” 

“I tell him I don’t want his money and he gives me his food, that boy is mad.” 

“No, really, I can’t eat anything.” 

“Oh, this old tramp bothering you?” 

“What t-” 

Ah, of course. He knew it. 

“No. I’m too stressed, is all.” 

“Oh. Then, okay. Can’t have it go to waste.” 

“It has ham in it.” 

“No problem, son, but I appreciate the thought.” 

Desden shrugged again and the old man took the sandwich. 

“Stressed why, son?” 

“Err.” Desden felt his watch. Still one hour and fifty minutes to go. Time was going so slowly… “Job interview. First one in a very long time.” 

“Oh. Which job?” 

“Translator. Interpreter. Quite vague. Not good, but I guess I’ll get more information then.” 

“My goodness, son.” The old man’s mouth was full of sandwich. “Which languages?” 

“English and German. That’s what’s on my CV. I can manage in Italian and Spanish but I don’t have certifications, and I’m not that good… anyway, you probably don’t care.” 

“Nope, I’m impressed. All this in Braille…” 

“No, uh, it was, it was before. I mean, now yes, but…” 

Ddesden sighed and shrugged again. The old man didn’t say anything, and kept on chewing. 

After a while, curiosity got to him, and Desden asked : “And you? Can’t help it, I noticed you… roll your r’s.” 

“Oh, you’re good, son, few notice. But I guess you got the ear for that. I’m Russian. I left when I was pretty young, but it stayed. It’s sad that you don’t have Russian in your own little brain library, I’d have loved to speak some… In fact, I worked just over there.” 

Desden might have been blind, but he knew where he was. University. He frowned. 

“You taught Russian?” 

“Da.” 

Desden didn’t say anything, and nodded slowly. The sun suddenly broke through the clouds, above their heads, and he closed his eyes, so he could enjoy its warmth without suffering from the light. 

“This sandwich is very good. I haven’t had one like that in years. Who made it for you?” 

“I did.”

“You?” 

“You don’t think I can?” 

“No. Congrats. If you speak English like you cook, it’ll be easy peasy, that interview.” 

“Hah. Well thanks. I’m not really doubting my English level…” 

Silence came again. The old man finished the sandwich. Desden even thought he could hear him lick his fingers. 

“Is it far?” 

“Not really. But I think I should go. Just in case.” 

“You want me to take you there, son? I don’t want you getting lost.”

“No need.” This time, everything was in order, nothing falling from his bag. Desden got up, and his dog did too. “I've walked there a few time last week. But thanks."

"I'll drink to your success, and cross my fingers, son. Will you come back and tell me how it went?" 


	2. Chapter 2

“Find a seat, Kalin’. A seat, Kalinka.”   
Kalinka diligently guided Desden to a bench, laying her head over the seat.   
It was crazy how everything worked far better between Desden and his dog when he wasn’t distracted, or panicking over something. They still had to learn to know each other. It had been only a few months, but Kalinka had changed a lot. Everything in his life had accelerated since he’d got her. 

He sat down. Today, there were two sandwiches in his backpack, and a bottle of apple juice. He hadn’t felt at ease with the idea of bringing alcohol. 

Desden waited, thinking that in this era of cellphones and instant communication, it was some kind of revolution to just wait for someone on a bench, not knowing if they would come. The sun was strong again, this day, and he re-adjusted his glasses on his nose, still tilting his head back to enjoy its warmth. It wouldn’t be that warm for a long while, now. 

“Wrong bench, son!”   
The old man was hailing him from somewhere on his right. But he wasn’t far, and joined Desden quickly.   
“My home is down there. But nevermind. You came back!”   
The old man gave a big whack on Desden’s shoulder. Desden gritted his teeth : he didn’t really like to be touched. But he excused the old man, also trying not to register the smell he was bringing with him.   
“So?” The old man sat down eagerly.   
“So I brought you a sandwich to celebrate.” Desden opened his bag, and he was unable to stop himself from smiling brightly. “You’re meeting with a new translator!”   
“Mazel-tov, son!” The old man hit his shoulder again, shaking Desden slightly. But it was still better than if he’d tried to hug him… 

Desden took the sandwiches out, and they shared a nice meal, chatting mostly about languages and how to learn them, since it was something they had in common. 

After a while, it had become a ritual between them. 

Once a week, usually on Wednesday, Desden would walk a little further than his place of work, all the way to the old man’s bench (which he was able to find easily after a few times). 

He didn’t even know his name - and the other didn’t either. They would talk about many things. The old man had seen enough things in his life to fill more than one. Desden listenned to him, sometimes wondering if the old man wasn’t just making up stories. But something was telling him they were all true, broadly speaking. The old man had, either way, a real talent as a storyteller. 

Desden liked him for that, for his humor, his cockiness in front of everything, but also because the old man was, and this since their first meeting, one of the few people not treating him with kid gloves. One of those not being put off, awkward with him. It was, consciously or not, what had pushed Desden to come back. 

He’d bring sandwiches, sometimes pies, to the old man. Cooking had always been a passion for Desden, his hobby since childhood. He was very happy to have managed to learn enough tricks to continue cooking for himself, but what he loved best was to cook for others. He’d ask what the old man liked, and made something with it that would be easier to eat while sitting on a park bench. 

Summer came and went. They got a nice Indian summer, freezing at night, humid and hot during the day, as was usual in this place. 

Leaves scrunched under Desden’s and Kalinka’s steps when they walked in the parc. Like every year, he tried to bring to his mind the beautiful colours he was missing - it wasn’t working very well. His visual memory had taken a severe hit. But the old man marvelled for him. He’d describe the contrast between oaks, birches and cedars. Told him about the golden leaves of the gingko biloba. It didn’t resonate much for Desden, not in visual terms, but it was beautiful to hear, and he was happy with it. 

“You’re not too cold at night?”   
“None of your business, son. Hey, did you know the gingko is the first tree that grew back after the Hiroshima bombing?...” 

Then, suddenly, a real autumn started. It was as if Desden could feel the grey skies in his bones. It smelled like snow in the wind coming from the mountains, the wet cold of the first falls. 

Desden missed a few Wednesday. Rain, wind, forced him to stay inside. He felt guilty, thinking the old man didn’t even have this luxury. 

One evening, as he was picking up his groceries at Farid and Laurence’s place, he had an idea, to change from the sandwich. 

One of the twins was on his knees - Leila, judging by how fast she’d climbed there without asking - and Farid was in the kitchen. Desden knew Laurence was next to him, but she wasn’t saying anything. She was counting. 

“Laurence, what are y-”   
“Shhh!”   
Laurence… Desden sighed. It wasn’t getting easier between them. He tilted his head back, and asked Farid in the kitchen behind them.   
“Farid?”   
“Hm?”   
“What is Laurence doing?”   
“She’s knitting.” Farid’s tone was amused and resigned at the same time.   
“Shut up,” Laurence cut them, dryly. “I’m counting.”   
“Badly. She’s knitting badly.” Farid walked into the living room. “She gets lost too easily when counting her stitches.”   
“Thanks for the support, Farid. Now shut up.”   
“You’re welcome, my little mousey-mouse.” Farid put something down in the living room - probably Desden’s groceries - and walked back to the kitchen. 

Desden stayed silent. Indeed, now that he knew, he could hear the needles clinking. Laurence was still grumbling. 

“Well I’d say she’s more like a skunk, right now.” 

“What’s a skunk?” Myriam, the other twin, whispered in Desden’s ear.   
“Some kind of ferret that yells a lot… AND STINKS!”   
The kids bursted into laughter. At four, it was relatively easy to make them laugh with anything, and Desden loved it.   
“Enough.” Laurence was taking everything coming from him with some kind of... motherly… irritation. Which irritated him, and made him do this kind of things. Which Laurence hated. Vicious circle.   
“What do you want?”   
“Could you knit me a scarf?” Desden went back to serious, almost pleading. “Please? It’s not for me. I don’t care if it’s ugly, I just need something warm. I’ll pay for the wool.” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The scarf was ready in two weeks; Laurence might always be a pain in his presence, she couldn’t refuse anything to him. Well, nothing she deemed not dangerous for him… 

According to Laurence, the scarf was quite nice. According to Farid, it was a good thing the scarf wasn’t for Desden, or people would think he knit it himself. 

But it was warm and thick : it’d be enough. 

Desden sat on the bench, the scarf in his backpack, on a Wednesday. Once. Then another Wednesday. Then another. 

No one came. 

He told himself the old man had maybe found a warm corner somewhere. A room in one of these old abandoned houses that still flanked the mountain, or rather that still did ten years prior. Farid and Desden, once exploring these parts, had made a few… stressful… encounters. Quite the adventure.    


Or maybe the old man had hitchhiked down to the coast. He’d told Desden he’d done it before. French coast, Italian, both were pretty close. 

Or maybe he’d been taken by volunteers on a roam, to a hostel for the night, too far from the park and his bench to come back during the day. 

Or maybe not. 

After a couple of long weeks, Desden, who’d braved the cold to come a last time and eat his sandwich on the bench, hesitated. Could he leave the scarf attached to it? But it could rain on it, and who would take it? Someone in need? If he’d been sure, he’d have left it. But he placed the scarf back in his bag. 

It was the middle of winter now, and if snow came, Desden would probably, as usual, stay and work from home. It wasn’t as hard now with Kalinka as it used to be, but walking the streets with melted snow and muck on the ground, and people who clearly didn’t know how to walk around those themselves, was a little too much. 

Snow or not, he wasn’t coming back to the bench. Not before spring. Anyway, it’d been almost a month and a half now that he had not met anyone there. 

Desden left, trying to imagine the old man on the beach, somewhere in Nice, smoking his smelly cigarettes under a palm tree and watching the waves crash on the pebbles. He was sure the old man would have a way to describe all this that would be nice to hear. 

He didn’t want to think about the other option. 

Weeks came and went, snow came, then melted (too early for most people, not fast enough for him). Each and every Wednesday, and sometimes other days too, Desden thought about the old man. 

February, when it came, was exceptionally nice. 

Desden sat on the bench without much hope. He was petting Kalinka, who was sitting between his legs. He scratched her between her ears absentmindedly. He had no sandwiches, no scarf in his backpack this day. He’d come on a whim, since the weather was warm enough. 

But it must be colder than he thought : his fingers tingled. In fact, it was more like pins and needles. But it must be the cold. What he could perceive of the light had suddenly darkened, and he assumed a cloud was hiding the sun. He took his gloves out of his pocket, and started getting up, when a voice nailed him back to the bench. 

“Leavin’, already?” 

The old man was sitting there, next to him. He had not heard him, and he had not smelled the stench that he took everywhere with him. And he still couldn’t smell anything. Desden’s whole body ached. His fingers were numb, his legs heavy. The tingling had morphed into shivers of static all the way along his spine, along his arms and legs. 

Desden was suddenly very, very weary. He knew where the old man had left. It’d been a long time he had not felt that. Long enough to have tried to lie to himself with the cold. 

The cold… it was a probable cause. Or alcohol. Or both.    
He wanted to leave. Now. He felt nauseous. But he owed him that. He had to stay. And he’d missed the old man. 

“No… I can stay for a while, if you want.”    
“I don’t really know what I want.”    
“I’m sorry. I don’t… have any sandwiches today.”    
“It’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”    
“I know.” 

There was a long silence. 

“You know? What do you know?”   
Desden raised a hand to rub his temples under the arm of his glasses. He loathed these moments. He never knew what to do.    
“That you aren’t hungry.”    
“Ah…” The old man sounded like a lost child. He sounded senile. “What am I doing here?”    
“You probably… have something to do… Something to say. That’s why you’re here.”    
“I don’t know.”    
“Nevermind. It’s your bench here, your home. You told me once. You can stay.”   
“Home? No, I live on Fontgieve street. With my wife. Rosa. Have you seen her?”    
Desden sighed.    
“No. Sorry.” 

“I’ll go get her.”    
“If you want.”    
“Will you come back, son?”    
“Yeah. I will.” Desden gulped. “Promised.”   
“Good. I like you, son.”    
“Me too…” 

The pain in Desden’s body vanished all at once. Blood flew again in his fingers, his arms and legs became lighter. 

Desden stretched his arm on his right, where the old man had sat. He had disappeared. 

Desden sighed again. He pushed his glasses up on his forehead, and hid his face in his trembling hands, his elbows resting on his knees. 

When he took his hands off his face, they were wet. He was still nauseous. And tired… so tired… 

He did not miss this. Not at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this first meeting with my OC Desden !


End file.
